


Fearless

by sylwrites



Series: break free and run [6]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Brotps all around, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 19:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10837746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylwrites/pseuds/sylwrites
Summary: The morning after their first date, Jughead gets grilled by Veronica, and Betty bonds with FP.Bughead AU.





	Fearless

**Author's Note:**

> A short windup to this AU.

 

_ She is the trick of my trade, _

_ She is the thing that can’t be made _

_ She is gold and nothing less; _

_ And she is fearless _

  
  


Jughead remembers the last time he felt completely happy.

 

It was seven years ago. He was twelve years old, and his father had been sober for three whole weeks. His mother had planned a birthday party for Jellybean’s sixth birthday, and to Jughead’s immense relief, his father had not only shown up, but was funny and charming with the parents of Jellybean’s kindergarten friends. It had been held at the communal pool in Sunnyside, and for that day, as the four of them trudged back to their trailer tired and laughing, everything was perfect.

 

It didn’t last; it never did. His father had started to drink again, work went sour, he started not coming home at night, and like always, Jughead poured himself into writing. Life was the words on the page, then became the clatter of the keyboard on the laptop Jughead had bought himself with his first job’s salary. In between were Archie and Betty, then Archie-and-Betty, and then finally, Betty. 

 

Jughead still kept in contact with Archie, who he considered a brother. He hadn’t Skyped with him in a while; Archie was studying music in Chicago, living with his mother, and had a pretty busy social schedule. That included multiple girls, of course; Archie was nothing if not prolific in that area. For Jughead, there was only ever Betty.

 

That was part of what made it difficult for him to tell Archie about him and Betty. How was a person supposed to start that conversation? ‘Hey Arch, I’m dating your ex-girlfriend, hope that’s cool.’ It wasn’t that Jughead thought Archie would react poorly, per se - his and Betty’s breakup had been amicable, after all, and they even still talked now and then - but it was still awkward. He didn’t want to have a conversation about how long he’d liked Betty, about how it had made him feel when Archie had dated and discarded her. At the same time, at some point the discussion will need to take place, because Jughead is in this for the long haul.

 

Because that’s the  _ thing.  _ Worries about Archie aside, Betty brings him back to that day at the pool, where he was just a kid with his parents, normal and happy. And although he knows that she’s not some pure princess (also knows that she hates that image), she still reminds him of better days - days he never even had, days that he only saw in hopeful dreams.

 

Today, as he’s waking up, it feels like one of those dreams. He feels the same warm bliss that he does in the dreams, the same smile stretches across his face, and just like in his dreams, he’s safe. Except there’s one difference: this time, it’s real. And this time, the warm bliss is the weight of a beautiful girl sleeping in his arms. The smile is because of Betty, and the cute wrinkle of her nose when he taps it.

 

(He’s still safe.)

 

Betty is curled on her side in front of him, having fallen asleep playing the little spoon, and even though she’s sort of numbing his arm Jughead has never been happier. They’re in her little bed in her dorm room, sleeping on perfectly white sheets. The soft beige-and-lavender pattern of her duvet brushes the arm that is thrown around Betty’s waist. Jughead wonders briefly how people can possibly split, how they can let this feeling go once they’ve got it.

 

(He’s not letting go.)

 

Betty makes a soft sleepy noise and moves slightly in his arms. Jughead looks down at her. Her blonde hair is tangled beneath her head, errant strands tickling his nose. She’s wearing nothing but panties and a thin-strapped camisole in a delicate peach colour, which is still more than him (simple boxers, plain black). He recalls how she had looked like an angel the previous night in her dress, and how she had looked even better later that night, beneath him in these sheets.

 

She looks even more beautiful this morning, he thinks, silently judging himself for being so cheesy and inarticulate.

 

They hadn’t had sex, at least not in the heteronormative him-inside-her sense, but they’d both been naked and had spent some unmeasured amount of time exploring one another, learning what elicited pleasure and what was to be moved past. Jughead had never been the kind of guy that was driven by his hormones, especially not in comparison to Archie, and at some point had even wondered if something was maybe wrong with him. But that previous night, laying in bed with his beautiful girlfriend - no, he was  _ definitely  _ into Betty. Ultimately they’d pulled on underwear and crawled back into bed, cuddling together and talking until one of them (Jughead couldn’t even remember who; which probably meant it was him, he realizes) fell asleep.

 

“Hi Betts,” Jughead mumbles as he presses a kiss to the back of her shoulder. 

 

Betty opens her eyes for a second and then closes them. A smile spreads across her face, and she rolls slightly to lay on her back. Her eyes reopen, blue-green like the ocean. “Mm. Hi.” She lifts her hand to his chest, biting her lip as she trails it across his abdomen before allowing it to drop to the mattress. “Yep. You're still hot.”

 

Jughead snorts. “What?”

 

“I thought maybe I dreamed having a super hot boyfriend,” Betty says, flitting her eyelashes at him. The remains of her evening makeup are still on her face, having fallen asleep before she had a chance to remove it. “But nope, you're still here.”

 

Jughead brushes a tiny flake of dried mascara off her cheek. “Smooth,” he remarks, leaning down and giving her a soft kiss. He intends for it to be short but Betty has other ideas, and before he knows it Betty has sucked a hickey onto his neck. Jughead slides the hand on her waist down to her hip, rubbing his thumb over her hipbone, and then upward once more. He slips his hand beneath her camisole and up over a breast, gently squeezing and teasing her skin. 

 

“Juggie,” Betty breathes, eyes fluttering closed.

 

He'll never get enough of this image. He could frame it and stare at it for decades and still nothing would compare to the real thing: Betty beside him with her lips slightly parted, a pleasured look on her face. His doing. Jughead kisses her again, softly this time, and is about to lift her shirt totally off when the sudden noise of his stomach grumbling loudly interrupts his movements. Betty's eyes fly open and she begins to giggle, breaking the mood. 

 

Jughead raises an eyebrow and looks sheepishly at her. “I'm a growing boy.”

 

“You've been saying that for almost twenty years,” Betty laughs, sitting up on her elbows. “Come on, let's get dressed and I'll make you breakfast.”

 

They pull on clothes - a pair of leggings and a sweater for her, yesterday's slacks and his undershirt for him - and after a pit stop in the bathroom for both of them, they move into the kitchen. Veronica doesn’t seem to be up yet, but Betty seems to assume that she will be soon because when she opens the fridge and assesses their grocery situation she comments, “I don’t think we have enough eggs for omelettes for three.”

 

“That’s okay,” Jughead says automatically, “honestly Betts, I’m okay with anything. Cereal. Whatever you have. Or hell, I can go out and pick up something.”

 

Betty wrinkles her nose. “You only have your clothes from last night. There’s a corner market a couple blocks up. I’m gonna go run up and grab some more eggs. Do you want to start frying the hash browns?” She pauses for a moment and looks at Jughead somewhat analytically, as though she’s trying to decide something. Then: “Do you know how to fry hash browns?”

 

“Betty, I’m not  _ helpless.”  _ He drops his jaw exaggeratedly, feigning offense. “But uh - you should just remind me.” She rolls her eyes and gives him quick instructions - medium heat, keep pushing them around,  _ don’t let them burn, Jughead -  _ then grabs her purse and is off.

 

It’s incredible timing, really, because not five minutes after Betty’s departure, Veronica’s door opens. Jughead is at the stove, ripping open the bag of hashbrowns and dumping them onto the heated pan, feeling instantly awkward. He likes Veronica well enough, and he gets the sense that she doesn’t mind him either, but they’re not exactly friends. They’ve certainly not spent any one-on-one time together.

 

“Mm, Betty, I can tell you’re making break - oh!” Veronica rounds the corner into the kitchen, still in her silk pajamas (he swears they have a VL monogram on the pocket,  _ honestly),  _ and stops when she sees him. She barely skips a beat, smiling at him somewhat deviously and sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs to face him. “Good morning, loverboy. Nice hickey. Where’s our ponytailed princess?”

 

“Getting eggs.”

 

Veronica raises an eyebrow. “And she trusted you with cooking?”

 

“I was given detailed instructions.” Jughead can’t stop the half-smile that crosses his face, so he immediately stares at the hashbrowns. 

 

Veronica chuckles. “Of course she did.” She crosses her legs primly. “So, Jughead, tell me about you and Betty.”

 

Jughead glances over at her. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean she’s so purposely vague about you. All I know is you’re both from Riverdale and you’ve been friends for a long time, and that she’s got a big crush on you.”

 

He feels his ears heat up. “We’re both from Riverdale, yeah.” Jughead uses the spatula to move around the potatoes again. “We’ve been friends since we were little kids. Her and me and our friend Archie.”

 

“Aw, like a three musketeers situation, that’s so - wait.  _ Archie?  _ Like, Betty’s ex, Archie?” Veronica stops, placing a hand on the kitchen table dramatically. “So you stole your friend’s girlfriend? Omigod. How  _ cinematic,  _ it’s like she was always destined for you and just didn’t see it. That’s so romantic!”

 

Jughead turns to face Veronica, unimpressed. “Hang on, Nora Ephron. It’s not like that. Yeah, same Archie, but he and Betty broke up years ago. And everyone is on good terms.”

 

“So you’ve told him about you and Betty and he’s overjoyed for you two?”

 

Shit. Jughead turns back to the hash browns. “Uh. I haven’t had a chance to yet. But he  _ will  _ be cool with it. I’m not worried. He’s moved on, several times over.”

 

“Still awkward.”

 

She was reading his mind. Still, Jughead didn’t need it to get back to Betty that he was nervous about talking to Archie about them. He just shrugs, and adjusts the heat slightly.

 

“Okay, okay.” Veronica stands up, and Jughead squeezes closer to the stove so she can pass by him in the narrow kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. She brings it back to the table, and upon taking a sip, gasps. “Oh my god, this coffee is amazing. There’s no way Betty brewed it.”

 

Jughead smiles at the hashbrowns. “Nope, it was me. I love Betty, but she doesn’t brew her coffee strong enough.”

 

“Ooh, you  _ love  _ Betty,” Veronica teases, “how sweet.”

 

Jughead knows she’s just joking, that the way he’d said it was in the vein of the casual generic definition of the word, but something jerks in his chest at her tone anyway. It’s too first-date, too teasing, not serious enough for how he feels - and has felt - about Betty. So he looks over at Veronica, catching her gaze. “Yeah, I do,” he answers seriously.

 

Veronica is uncharacteristically quiet after that, enough that Jughead hazards another glance at her. She’s studying him, one manicured hand on her chin, the other wrapped around the handle of her coffee mug. He quickly looks back at the potatoes, lowering the heat even more so they don’t burn before Betty comes back. “You have for a while, huh?” Veronica finally says in a softer tone than usual.

 

Jughead doesn’t answer, but he assumes the flush on his neck, face, and ears is answer enough. Fifteen seconds of silence later, he can hear the door unlock, and he’s never been so happy to be out of a conversation in his life.

 

“I’ve got eggs!” Betty calls, and when she takes a couple of steps closer Jughead hears, “Good morning V! You’re up!”

 

“Yup. Just bonding with your boyfriend. He makes good coffee.”

 

Betty comes around the corner, two bags in hand. Jughead looks over at her in time to see her make a disgusted face. “It’s so strong!” 

 

“Two against one,” Veronica says gleefully.

 

Betty rolls her eyes and sets the bags on the counter. She comes to stand beside Jughead, peering over at the hashbrowns. “Not burned yet! Another couple of minutes. Very good, Juggie.”

 

Jughead smiles at her. She’s got her face upturned and is looking at him somewhat expectantly, so he gives her a quick kiss. Though he’s definitely not into PDA, Jughead doesn’t really mind that Veronica is watching - she’d seen them in a much more compromising position the evening before in the hallway, after all - although when they pull apart he does hear an audible “aww” coming from the dark-haired girl’s direction. He shakes his head at her.

 

Betty smiles over at her friend briefly before launching into business-Betty mode. “I got eggs and some more cheese, and some mini tart crusts so I can make a few miniature quiches to send home for your dad - omelettes don’t exactly pack well.” She touches Jughead’s arm and moves him slightly to the side so she can put the groceries in the fridge. “Is storebought okay? I’d make the crusts myself but I just thought about it at the store and I don’t have time. Will he mind?”

 

“I don’t think my dad even knows what the word ‘quiche’ means,” Jughead snorts. “He calls them ‘the egg pies from Betty’.” He places a hand on her shoulder. “He wouldn’t notice, I promise. But you don’t have to make them. I’m sure he’s planning on ordering pizza or Chinese and eating it for the next couple of days.”

 

Betty looks horrified. “What about the frozen meals I brought over on Tuesday?”

 

“We’re Jones men, Betts. We ate them.” He sees her expression, can tell by her slightly glazed-over eyes that she’s already planning something, and he shakes his head vigorously. “Don’t even think about it. I know it may not seem like it by our nutritional choices, but we’re both adults. We’ll survive without you bringing us meals. I’ll even eat some vegetables and I’ll make him eat some too. Does that make you feel better?”

 

Veronica clears her throat, holding her hand up. “Seriously, neither you nor your father can cook  _ anything?”  _

 

“Of course we can!” Jughead responds, barely registering it as Betty takes the spatula from him and begins to tend to the hash browns that he’s neglecting. “It’s not like it’s impossible to follow a recipe. Things just tend to get … burned … or the chicken tastes like leather. And vegetables are - I don’t know. I like them when Betty makes them. But somehow when I make them they don’t taste as good.”

 

Veronica looks confused. “How did you not die of scurvy as a child?”

 

Jughead feels a familiar sense of discomfort rising in his chest and upper back. “Archie’s dad fed me a lot. He made vegetables. I lived with them for a while. After I moved in I had a growth spurt.” He becomes very interested in his coffee. He knows his face is holding a lot more tension than usual because his skin feels oddly stretched despite his intentionally neutral expression. Then Betty’s hand settles between his shoulder blades in such a way that Veronica can’t really see, her fingers scratching lightly at his skin through the thin material of his undershirt, and he feels his head and neck relax.

 

He’s worried that Veronica going to press for more details ( _ why did you live with Archie? What about your mom? Why does it seem like you’re parenting your dad?)  _ and braces for the barrage of questions, but to his surprise Veronica just smiles at him. “There’s probably a correlation there.”

 

Jughead nods and gives her a vaguely grateful look. “Yeah, probably.” He clears his throat. “Do you need any help, Betty?”

 

“Nope, I got it!” she answers cheerfully, chopping up mushrooms and onions. She tosses them, some diced ham, and a few leaves of spinach into a separate pan, then practically pushes Jughead over to the table. “Sit. You’re in the way.”

 

He plops into a chair, slightly amused, and makes eye contact with Veronica. “Romance is dead,” she quips, and they both smile.

  
  


\---

  
  


Betty trusted Jughead and FP to take care of themselves. Really, she did. They’d both managed to survive to this point, and like Veronica had pointed out at breakfast two hours earlier, neither had died of scurvy. Clearly, they could manage their own lives. 

 

But still … 

 

There was something so plainly  _ sad  _ in knowing that Jughead had been raised on microwave TV dinners and frozen pizzas, that he only ever got home-cooked meals at other people’s houses, that he didn’t understand what it was like to sit down with his family for dinner and have that  _ not  _ be some kind of special occasion. For all Alice and Hal Cooper’s faults, Betty had been raised with nightly family dinners, close communication, and a comfortable bed. By contrast, Jughead had spent a lot of time sleeping in the drive-in theatre projection booth, in closets, and on more couches than she could remember. The apartment he currently shared with his father was probably the closest thing to a stable residence he’d had in years. He was finally  _ content,  _ and Betty just wanted to do everything she could to make sure it stayed that way.

 

That was where her meals came in. She never wanted to force them on anyone, but the Jones men took them willingly and seemed to enjoy them. Somewhere in the back of Betty’s mind she hoped that the consistent home-y feeling of her dinners and breakfasts helped to bring FP some stability, too. Whether he knew it or not, FP had an incredible impact on his son’s happiness. When he was on the wagon, Jughead was happy, and when he wasn’t, neither was Jughead. When he had a job, Jughead carried himself more easily. When FP was unemployed, Jughead seemed more outwardly burdened. 

 

He had a deep love for his father that Betty respected immensely, and as long as she’d known him Jughead had been unable to separate himself and his own mental state from that relationship. Betty understood; even miles away, Alice Cooper still had a profound effect on her. He’d been so supportive of her (for years, really) - this was her way, however small, of repaying him for that.

 

That’s how she ends up here, in the elevator of his apartment building, arms laden with grocery bags. Jughead is with her, having accompanied her in his dad’s truck. He’d planned such a nice evening for them the night before: a great dinner, and a movie in her bedroom that quickly turned into making out (and a bit more). When he was about to get on his way home, Betty had talked her way into accompanying him - with a pit stop at the supermarket.

 

The elevator dings on his floor, and Jughead leads her out of it. He shifts the two bags in his right hand to his left, now balancing four plastic bags in one hand, and digs through his pocket for his keys with the other. He unlocks the apartment door and pushes it open. Betty is close behind, kicking her shoes off and making a beeline for the kitchen counter.

 

FP is awake already, sitting on the couch with a coffee. “Hey Jughead,” he calls, not turning his head. “I’m guessing this means your date with Betty went well.”

 

“Uh, yeah.” Jughead makes an apologetic face at Betty. “Dad, Betty’s here. She brought you breakfast. And she’s insisting on making dinners for the week, so we have a bunch of groceries. That okay?”

 

FP turns. “Oh, hey Betty. Yeah, of course. When have I ever turned down Betty’s cooking?”

 

Betty grins at Jughead. “See, I told you.”

 

“All I told you was that you didn’t  _ have  _ to cook, not that he wouldn’t want it,” Jughead reminds her dryly. “I’m gonna hop in the shower and change - can I leave you here for a few minutes?”

 

“Of course.” Betty catches Jughead’s hand and tugs him toward her, kissing him. When they pull apart she notices him checking to see if his dad was watching, and she squeezes his hand. “Don’t worry, he can’t see,” she whispers, kissing him briefly again. Louder, she says, “I’m sure your dad will help chop vegetables.”

 

“Sure.” The sound of the couch squeaking is heard, and in a moment FP appears around the corner. “Least I can do.”

 

Jughead looks between Betty and his father, then smiles at Betty and with a nod, walks into the bathroom.

 

Betty turns to FP with a big smile on her face. “Okay! I'm gonna make some feta and spinach stuffed chicken breasts first. We bought some spinach at the store. Can you wash it and cut or tear it into smaller pieces? I'll get started on some roasted potatoes.” She pulls the bag of spinach out of one of the grocery bags and hands it to FP. 

 

“Alright,” FP says slowly, locating the relatively unused cutting board Jughead had bought when they moved to Boston. “Like this?”

 

Betty glances over from her position at the sink, scrubbing and peeling potatoes. “Yes, that's perfect. Thanks for helping!” she adds cheerfully. 

 

FP snorts. “Thank  _ you,  _ Betty. You know you don't have to do this for us.”

 

She shrugs. “I like cooking. People shouldn't live on takeout alone.”

 

“Sometimes we microwave frozen TV dinners,” FP protests, but Betty raises an eyebrow and he relents. “Yeah, probably not much better.” He puts some of the chopped spinach into a bowl as Betty watches, and just as she drops another peeled potato into her own bowl he speaks again. “Betty, I know you and Jughead have been friends for a long time.”

 

She frowns and turns toward him, slightly concerned by this line of discussion. It seems sort of random, and -  _ oh God.  _ Betty has a moment of panic: this is when FP tells her that she's not good enough for Jughead,  _ thank you for the friendship but Jughead deserves a fresh start,  _ that she's got too much baggage. She swallows her anxiety, fingers itching. “Yes. He's been there for me through a lot, Mr. Jones.”

 

“And you've been there for him too, I know. More than me,” FP admits. “I just wanted you to - you know that you're important to the kid, right? Really important.”

 

Betty fights back a sigh of relief. This was the  _ other  _ parental talk. She smiles and nods. “He's really important to me too, Mr. Jones. In a lot of ways - old and new.”

 

FP looks at her for a long moment, a beat more than was typical, and Betty feels off-balance for a split second before he nods and says, “Good!” He then begins to cut more spinach as Betty turns away from her potatoes for a moment to preheat the oven. 

 

When Jughead saunters out of his bedroom fifteen minutes later in jeans and a familiar flannel, beanie now back on his wet hair, FP has taken over peeling potatoes for Betty as she's began to stuff raw chicken breasts with bits of spinach and cubes of feta cheese. She looks up at him and smiles. “How was your shower?”

 

“Invigorating.” Jughead stops suddenly and clutches his heart dramatically. “Oh my god. Hang on.” He raises his phone and snaps a photo of his father peeling potatoes. “God, sorry. Whew. I just needed to capture this moment; I probably won't see it again for a few years.”

 

“Ha ha, kid. I'm operating under your girlfriend’s orders.”

 

Betty looks up at Jughead to see his expression. It's the first time FP has called her Jughead's girlfriend (in front of her, anyway). She knows in the past that Jughead has had a weird relationship with his father and his personal life, so she's bracing for some discomfort, but Jughead just smiles and slings an arm around Betty's shoulders.

 

“She's bossy, but we get good food out of it,” he jokes. 

 

Betty swats at him. He laughs and dodges it, instead catching her waist and squeezing it affectionately. “Jerk,” she says fondly. 

 

He drops his chin to her shoulder, standing behind her and peering over at the chicken. “This doesn't look like pizza.”

 

“It's not,” Betty responds, taking a baking sheet and placing the chicken breasts on it in a perfect line. “The only meat you guys eat cannot be pepperoni.” She slides it into the oven. “In there for a bit, then onto the stovetop to get the sides nice and browned. How are the potatoes, Mr. Jones?”

 

“I think you've earned FP by this point, Betty.”

 

Betty doesn't fight the smile that arises automatically at that. “How are the potatoes, FP?” she repeats, leaning back into Jughead’s chest slightly. He kisses her temple soundlessly, her eyes briefly fluttering closed at the pressure. 

 

“Almost peeled. Then what?”

 

Betty turns, grinning gleefully at Jughead and his father. “Next we make  _ salads.” _

  
  
**fin**

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Upon reading feedback, I've decided to leave this open-ended: may post one-shots in this universe every now and then, but not promising anything regular! :) I've got something else in the works.


End file.
